


to be certain

by delia-pavorum (literaryminded)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (In Case it Wasn't Clear), Also He's Still Kylo Ren Here, Because he Thinks it Makes him Sound Like More of a Bad Ass, Brought to You By the Committee to Ensure That Ben Solo Gets Head Sometimes, But Really He's Just Ben Solo, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Hurt/Comfort, Mostly Smut, Oral Sex, Some angst, That Big Nerd, The Ben Solo Blow Job Fic That 3 of You Have Been Waiting For, very little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-28 08:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15703908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryminded/pseuds/delia-pavorum
Summary: He found comfort in knowing that that gentle glow, her life force, was there. She traveled off-world extensively, always on that maker-forsaken hunk of junk, and always with Chewbacca (still giving him the furriest cold shoulder the galaxy had ever seen –understandably so,Kylo admitted in the privacy of his thoughts, rubbing absently at his chest). This warmth, that light in his mind, let him know that she was okay and safe at all times until she returned(to him).Suddenly, his hand slipped and the sharp innards of the droid cut him slightly. Before he could even question this loss of focus, an acute pain radiated from his head and down his limbs, centring in the lower part of his left leg. His heart rate escalated rapidly and his head began to spin, a physiological reaction that he was unsure was his own or—Rey.When Rey gets injured off-world, Ben feels it through the bond. Chaos ensues.ORThe Ben Solo blow job fic we all (read: 3 people) have been waiting for





	to be certain

**Author's Note:**

> This story came about from the following two prompts: _“Stop that, you’re embarrassing me.” and “I’m not sick, stop treating me like a baby.”_ from my list of prompts that you can find [here](https://delia-pavorum.tumblr.com/post/175013803551/update-08162018-hello-an-update-for-you-this). At first, it was part of my prompt anthology [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14553363/chapters/33626979), but I've separated it into its own work now, because why not.
> 
> **This is dedicated to** : my wonderful, amazing, beautiful, talented, generous, glorious smutmama crew for their support in the release (and re-release) of this fic. They bring me up when I’m down and I don’t know what I’d do without them. Special thanks to [Numinex919](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Numinex919/pseuds/Numinex919) for being the beta I always knew I needed. Love you my ladies. ♥️ 
> 
> **N.B.** : There’s a verb tense change two-thirds of the way in that’s intentional. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

The minute it happened, Kylo knew.

He had been tinkering with an old droid in his quarters, also known as the veritable prison cell that the Resistance thought they were fooling him into thinking were proper accommodations. It was laughable the ways they tried to occupy him in the times where his presence wasn’t beneficial to their cause — _here, take these tools, have this droid, do whatever you need, please don’t ignite your lightsaber on us, ex-Supreme Leader, sir_ — while essentially keeping him confined to his room like an errant child.

He was to be trusted, of course, on orders from the General herself, particularly when providing tactical advice on the inner workings of the First Order and how the Resistance could exploit their weaknesses. But not _too_ trusted, mind you — which was also, he was certain, an order from the General. Luckily he’d had enough to occupy him as of late.

And he wasn’t talking about droids.

She was on his mind already, as she frequently was. _Always_. _Always was._ He could feel the unbidden, reflexive tug at the corner of his mouth – not a smile by any stretch of the imagination, but a softening of the tight corners of his lips as he thought of her and the ways they…occupied one another.

It had been months since his defection, since his enemy had become his ally and his former troops his enemy, with General Hux at the helm – fancying himself Supreme Leader Hux, a laughable thought – as rabid as ever, fair frothing with his ire and penchant for destruction. Unfortunately for Hux, blowing up planets was not an ideal way to recruit support and so he’d had to change tactics slightly. And since covert tactics were not Hux’s strong suit, the transition from planetary destruction to more delicate infiltration appeared to be taking months to master. Still, it was a time of uncertainty for all—waiting for the next strike, not knowing how and when it would arrive.

In the meantime, the Resistance was building power and resources and had the most powerful resource of all right in their midst: the two sides of the Force, the light and the dark, working with them, and together, and—

Well.

Kylo admittedly remained unconvinced that a Resistance-branded future was the ideal scenario for the galaxy. He also knew that Rey, after her time spent with the Resistance, working with them and for them, talking to them, talking to _him_ – long talks, into the late hours of the night, first through their Bond and then in the same room and then in the same _bed_ (there was that tug again, the other side lifting slightly as well; could it be considered a smirk at this point?) –  felt the same way.

As a result, their future was even less certain. Not that they were planning to decamp, per se. Perhaps they were simply hoping that the Resistance could be persuaded to embrace a slightly less fanatical approach to galactic peace?

These were the thoughts swirling through his head as he delved deep into the guts of the droid – some standard worker droid, probably useless even when in full working order, but idle hands and all that – these thoughts, in addition to a faint, warm pulse, right at the back of his mind that he knew to be her.

He found comfort in knowing that that gentle glow, her life force, was there. She traveled off-world extensively, always on that maker-forsaken hunk of junk, and always with Chewbacca (still giving him the furriest cold shoulder the galaxy had ever seen – _understandably so_ , Kylo admitted in the privacy of his thoughts, rubbing absently at his chest). The warmth, that light in his mind, let him know that she was okay and safe at all times until she returned ( _to him_ ).

Suddenly, his hand slipped and the sharp innards of the droid cut him slightly. Before he could even question this loss of focus, an acute pain radiated from his head and down his limbs, centering in the lower part of his left leg. His heart rate escalated rapidly and his head began to spin, a physiological reaction that he was unsure was his own or—

_Rey_.

He was out the door before he even realized that he had stood up. Stationed at the entrance were two guards – _ah, yes, it appeared his own tactics regarding the treatment of “guests” was a genetic predisposition after all_ – who foolishly tried to apprehend him before he got past the sliding durasteel opening.

Kylo felt a surge of rage at the delay. Before they were even able to draw weapons, the tips of their boots were skimming the floor as they dangled helplessly in the air, disarmed blasters clattering to the ground.

“L-Lord Ren—” one gasped. Kylo may have defected, but he hadn’t been ready to abscond with the entirety of his identity towards the rest of the Resistance just yet. _Not with all of them, at any rate_.  

The guard appeared to be having difficulty drawing breath — entirely due to his own fear, as Kylo had ensured that his Force grip purposely avoided cinching around the man’s trachea. An impressive feat considering the depths of his upset, pain and fear still intermingling through his system.

Since the destruction of Snoke, the insidious dark-sider voice in his head had ceased to exist beyond the turmoil of his own conflicted thoughts. As time passed, he felt the claws retract further to the point where he now remained ambivalent about most things related to his powers, content to place himself in an area mostly reminiscent of grey. However, Rey — still firmly embedded in the light side ( _despite her moments_ , he thought wryly) — frowned upon the more severe methods of persuasion and dominance as related to the Force. In turn, Kylo had adopted a more placid demeanour when exerting his powers. More controlled.

Less choking.

“The General told us to k-keep you in your qu-quarters unless directly s-s-summoned,” he said in a disjointed stutter, his breathless terror impeding his speech as he continued to dangle, toes scrabbling for purchase.

“Please?” the other Rebel lackey added, swinging beside his comrade.

Kylo cocked his head as he regarded them, wishing, briefly, that he still had his mask. It certainly proved useful when needed for the purposes of intimidation. At that thought, he recalled another useful skill he had.

Minutes later, he left the two guards in a befuddled pile on the floor, rubbing their heads and their backsides and wondering, though neither of them voicing, how and why they had agreed to let former Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, under house arrest on strict orders from General Organa herself, get past them with nary a confrontation.

Kylo made it to the control room and he zeroed in on the General talking to her lead starpilot and pet, Commander Poe Dameron (or was it Captain? Since there seemed to be some debate on the matter, Kylo always made sure to reference him by the latter). He had no qualms about immediately cutting into their conversation, standing slightly in front of the shorter man, who voiced an inarticulate protest.  

“Where did you send her?” he demanded, understanding that he appeared slightly unhinged as he loomed over his mother, yet unable to bring himself to care.

She sighed heavily. “I should have known the guards wouldn’t be enough.”

“ _Where did you send her?_ ” His voice, already deep and commanding, deepened further while escalating in volume as he intruded closer into the General’s space.

“Whoa, whoa, big guy.” Dameron went to shoulder his way in between them, like the fucking fool he was.

Kylo, his ire already elevated, blood pressure up, still feeling pain and panic that he knew was coming from a psyche not his own, which was causing his own panic to rise, lifted a hand to send the starpilot flying across the room—

“ _Stop_.”

Both men turned to look at the petite older woman, with a commanding voice to rival even Kylo’s.

“That’s _enough_.” She leaned heavily on her cane as she looked up at her son. “Why do you need to know where Rey is?”

Since Kylo had been back on base, back in her presence, she had seemingly faded before his eyes. He had known she was ill even from before, even from the moment he had sensed her presence on board the star cruiser as he sat in the Silencer and shakily moved his finger off the trigger. But to be confronted daily with her frailty still took some getting used to. Not at the moment, though. At the moment he had a singular focus. He shook his head, aggravated.

“Something is wrong.” He could still feel the pain pulsing through him – his head, his back, particularly centred in his left leg – and his heartbeat was still stuttering a quick, irregular pace. “Something is wrong with her. I need to know where she is.” The uncertainty was destroying him, making his skin crawl, his fists clench.

His mother regarded him closely. Though she understood as well as anyone the complexities of a Force connection, she was unaware of the exact, multifaceted nature of the bond he and Rey shared and she had never asked, instead allowing them to guard the specifics of their particular union.

“Where do you think we’re going to let you fly off to, pal?” a grating voice drawled at his side.

He gritted his teeth and made a deeply concerted effort to keep his fists clenched at his side, though he could feel his hackles rising, a tense sweat beginning at his brow and temples with the strength it took to keep from crushing the other man.  

“B—Kylo.” It took a minuscule, but still perceptible effort to correct herself. “You can’t possibly think it’s a good idea to fly off into deep space to rescue her like some avenging knight. Rey can handle herself. Plus, Chewie is with her. He’ll get her out of any sticky situation she may have found herself in.”

Here she was, the familiar Leia. Phrasing things in such a way as to make him feel like an adolescent once more. And here _he_ was: a dark-sider gone light(er), the (former) Supreme Leader of the First Order, (ex-)ruler of a sizeable portion of the galaxy, being reprimanded by his mother.

He briefly contemplated the amount of energy it would take to blow apart half the base, when one of the commanding officers – a blonde with her hair done up in intricate braids, a style reminiscent of his mother in her younger days – called out, “Incoming ship approaching! It’s the Falcon, General.”

As soon as the words were out of the fleet commander’s mouth, Ben brushed right past his mother, ignoring the childish impulse to Force kick the pilot’s legs out from underneath him, and strode through the base towards the hangar, anticipating the Falcon’s landing. His stride was impeded by a marked limp, the throbbing phantom pain in his leg more pronounced the closer they got.

_Damn_ it. He knew for a fact there was no proper med bay or med droid on his father’s maker-forsaken ship, and he had been pressing her to implement some sort of safety measures to that effect.

She had brushed him off, ensuring him that any recon her and Chewie undertook was often too boring and unbearably safe to warrant that sort of support - support that their efforts currently couldn’t even afford to spare.

Ah, but he knew her. The truth was she was reluctant to take medical assistance from the base, because she didn’t want the help wasted on her. She could take care of herself. She always had.

He gritted his teeth against this thought and against the icy blasts of air coming in from the open entrance. The enormous space left little cover from the cold. The Resistance had found themselves back on Hoth – the irony was not lost on Kylo – as they regrouped their forces, and the drafty former base was not (no longer? Ever?) designed with heat retention in mind. When the first priority was survival and the second was winning a war, personal comfort fell low on the list.

All thoughts of ice and cold and snow and the climate of Hoth fled from his mind as he watched the Falcon enter the atmosphere and coast into the hangar.

It felt like eons before it finally landed and settled – he had to refrain from letting out the exasperated sigh he felt in his soul, eyes rolling in the back of his head, as he heard it clunk its way down – and _finally_ the doors opened with a hiss. The ramp came down and Kylo found his legs cemented to the floor, the uncertainty of what state he would find her in, the fear of her condition, keeping him frozen in place. He strained to see her figure emerging, unharmed, not even aware of the silent litany in his head: _please please please please—_

A furry appendage appeared through the steam, the warm interior air of the Falcon mingling with the frigid air outside of it, followed by seven feet of matted caramel-coloured hair and _—_

“Rey,” Kylo breathed, seeing the Wookiee holding precious cargo: an irritated Rey, to be precise, being bridal-carried by the shaggy Kashyyykian.

Kylo thawed in relief and could no longer prevent his feet from taking him to her any more than he could prevent the cold air from swirling around him or the Wookiee from emitting a displeased bellow at his presence.

“What happened?” he asked, hardly mindful of whether or not his tone was sharper and more forceful than it had been with her of late. “What did you do?”

Her eyes snapped to his, sparking with pain – pain he could still feel coursing through his own veins – as frustration seared the edges of their bond.

“I kriffing fell,” she gritted out. “Like a stupid wastoid. We were navigating the old battle station on Scarif and one of the platforms was falling apart and I just—” She cuts off and he can feel the panic she felt in that moment, once again filtering into his own thoughts and feelings, as swift a takeover as it had been when it occurred.

Rage coursed through him at her admission. How _dare_ she be so careless. Did she not realize how vital she was, how precious? Did she not understand the consequences of her actions?

“You need to be seen _immediately_ by a med droid,” he bit out. “I felt it when you fell. You hit your head, too, didn’t you? And Maker knows what else. _My_ whole body aches. I can only imagine how you feel.” Each sentence came out like a blaster shot. Terse, uncharacteristically verbose, but with a too-familiar undercurrent of anger bubbling to the surface. He could feel her own anger kindling, too, growing into a rolling flame, but he couldn’t stop himself. Every time he thought of her fear and her pain, he grew more wretched with fury. “You’ll be lucky if that leg isn’t broken. What were you _think_ —”

“Stop it,” she ground out, cheeks reddening as she struggled to release herself from the Wookiee’s hold. Chewie gingerly put her down and she jerked away, favouring her left leg. “You’re embarrassing me.” She spoke in an undertone and glanced over his shoulder at the last and he knew they had acquired company, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“You _should_ be embarrassed,” he snapped, not even attempting to moderate his volume or his tone. “You’re not an orphaned scavenger on that carcass of a planet anymore. You’re important to people. You’re important to—” He broke off before he could finish, mouth working in pent-up emotion.

“Important to who, big guy?”

Kylo’s shoulders hitched involuntarily, the pilot’s voice nettling and discordant, like a hawk-bat in his ears. A tingle went up his spine and he mentally counted how many life forms he could sense behind him. Four—no, five. He didn’t even want to make a guess at who it could be, though he was certain he already knew, regardless.

Suddenly, it became too much.

The fear for her safety and the subsequent anger that coursed through his veins – anger that he had successfully been making efforts to control, now suddenly threatening to take over, all the old feelings coming to the forefront – plus the gathering they had to contend with, gazes curious and penetrating, and her. Her—her scorn? Her derision? Her disregard for his concern? Enough.

_Enough_.

With one loaded, searing look directly into her agitated gaze, he turned heel and stalked out of the hangar, brushing shoulders with the pilot a bit too forcefully, avoiding his mother’s eyes, glaring at the former Stormtrooper who dared glance in his direction.

Back to his prison.

* * *

Time has passed. He doesn’t know how much. A standard day? Mere hours? It doesn’t matter. All he knows is that he is somewhere that she is not. His mind is wrought with uncertainty. He doesn’t know if she’s okay, what the details of her injury entail, if there was someone there to comfort her or—

He clenches his fist.

It doesn’t matter.

She didn’t want him there. _That_ is the only fact he should focus on.

The pain from his leg has subsided. He hopes, before he can stop himself, that this is because she received the healing care required for her injuries and not just the fading of their bond.

With a self-inflicted growl of disgust at the direction of his thoughts, he tosses his hand and the droid from earlier, most of its parts still strewn about the floor, hits the durasteel interior wall of his quarters with a resounding crash, more parts scattering across the room.

It doesn’t _matter._

As the words echo through the transoms of his mind, the light in the back of his head that never really faded – that warmth – grows stronger.

Against his will, he feels his traitorous heart pick up speed.

In less than a minute, he can hear muffled voices outside his door. The guards are talking, their deep voices responding to a lighter, lilting tone. One laughs. Kylo imagines killing him slowly. After a short time, he hears footsteps receding, conversation being carried with them.

The warmth remains.

A beat. The sliding durasteel creaks apart, as though its being forced by an unauthorized entity.

_Whoever could it be_ , he thinks dryly.

A face peers through the opening as it separates just enough. Freckles and dimples and sunlight and warmth, more warmth, enough to heat this whole blasted, frozen rock—

“Hi,” she says and she’s sheepish and a little standoffish, but warm, so warm, and _here_.

She hobbles in once the space between the doors allows it and they slam shut behind her forcefully, rattling the walls.

Kylo swallows a vexed sigh. They clearly need to work more on steady control when manipulating objects using the Force.

He watches her as she approaches him. He’s been laying on his bed – errant child, indeed – and he makes no move to get up, though his keen, dark eyes take in her appearance like a starving animal encountering its first meal.

Bacta on her forehead. A cloth sling holding her arm to her chest. A quick-seal splint on her left leg.

He probes her for spots of pain or discomfort.

“Stop that,” she chides him, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed.

He continues to regard her coolly and says nothing.

She lifts her chin and looks back at him.

They stare at one another for an eternity, possibly less, before he has to break the silence.

“They didn’t have a fucking plasto-cast?”  

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“What is this, fucking Tatooine thirty years before Yavin?”

“Ben—”

“No, I’m curious. What other outdated, haphazard garbage can we resurrect—”

“Ben!” Rey stays him with a hand on his leg, her good hand, and his mouth closes with a click of his teeth. “It’s _fine_. It was a hairline fracture. Clean. It’ll be better in no time.”

His jaw moves beneath clenched teeth, but otherwise he looks at the ceiling and says nothing.

“Ben,” Rey begins, squeezing the part of his leg where her hand rests. “I came to talk to you.”

_It’s over. She’s realized that your relationship is a hindrance and it’s holding her back from fulfilling her potential with the Resistance and the other Rebels – her_ friends _. You’re not her friend. You’re nothing. Not even good enough to—_

“I wanted to apologize.”

His eyes snap to hers at that. She looks sheepish again, remorseful even. She’s removed her hand from his leg and is toying with a loose end of the cloth holding her other arm close to her chest as she looks away from his probing gaze.

“My behaviour when I came off the Falcon—when everyone else was—it wasn’t right. I know why you came to the hangar to see us. I knew you felt what had happened. And I know that if it had been me—and you had been the one—” She shakes her head, tightening her lips, frustrated with herself. “I’m mucking this up.”

He continues to watch her as she finds her words, allowing his gaze to sweep over her hair, still mussed and falling from its ties, to the bruises on the delicate skin of her temple, to the loosened wraps on her arms, the dirt on her pants. She had come straight to him from the med-bay, he realizes.

“I’m just—I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she says, finally. “It bears repeating that I know why you were there. I would have been, too, had it been you who’d been injured. I should have been more mindful of what you were going through, too.”

He clears his throat and sits up, folding his body so that his arms rest on his bended knees, hands dangling between his legs. “Don’t worry about me,” he says quietly, a slight rasp evident. “As long as you’re okay, that’s all that matters.” At this, he reaches out, lightly clasps behind her ear, rubs her cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry, too.” _I should know better. Control myself._

She nods, eyes glassy, and swallows hard. “I just don’t know how to—be.” It sounds like an admission and he waits for her to continue. “With other people, sometimes. And with you, it’s different, because of _this_ —” She gestures between the two of them with her unwrapped hand. “—whatever it is. Do we—do we tell them? I mean,” she scoffs, “as if they haven’t already guessed. But, do we make it clear? Do we—” She tosses her hands up helplessly. “I just don’t know.”

He shrugs, thumb still stroking gently, just underneath the Bacta. She leans into him slightly, eyes drooping. “We do whatever we want,” he tells her simply.

She nods. “Yeah.” Her eyes meet his and a dimple appears before the smile fully forms. It has mischief behind it, to match the glint in her eye. “We do, don’t we?”

He can’t help the twitch of his own lips, gaze trailing down to her mouth and staying there, unable to be torn away. His hand tightens behind her head, drawing her closer to him. “We do,” he assures her, before bringing her lips to his.

She tastes like the cold now – water from a spring, refreshing and invigorating, slaking his thirst. Her aura, though, continues to thump warmly around them, growing hotter as the kiss intensifies.

She breaks away suddenly and removes the cloth sling from her arm.

He makes an inarticulate noise of admonishment – he’s incapable of much else – and she shakes her head impatiently.

“It was dislocated and it’s been set, it’s fine. I should be moving it now, so it doesn’t stiffen up on me.”

The casualness with which she provides this information floors him. She senses his incredulity.

“Ben,” she says in a soft tone, although there is no sentimentality in her voice as she pushes him back down onto the bed, “who do you think set all the other dislocated shoulders I’ve ever had?” She brushes his hair back from his forehead as he absorbs the gesture while preparing for what she’s about to say. “At least this time there was a qualified med droid and not just me against a rock wall.”

“Rey,” he groans, the way he always does when she reveals a bit about her past. He’s already seen it all, has known about it for ages, but every time she reveals a fact like that one, it comes to the forefront of his mind in living colour: a young Rey, a teenager, a strap between her teeth, jamming herself against stone and brick and mortar, then wrapping herself up and hoping for the best.

“Shh,” she soothes, as though it is he who needs comfort for the atrocities of her past, and not her who she should be cradled and swaddled and wrapped in silks and furs and jewels, placed on a throne above a kingdom of stars, on a planet of sumptuous warmth and greenery and—

Her incredulous laugh breaks him of his reverie.

“That looks lovely,” she admits and he realizes belatedly he hasn’t hidden his thoughts very well, “but I’ll be honest. The place I would like to be the most,” she lowers her voice slightly, “is right here. Right now.”

Her hazel eyes lift up to meet his, and he sees something there, something indefinable, indecipherable, but something that looks like tenderness and affection, and even softer than that, dearer than that, something that could almost be—

She’s leaning down and kissing him again and this time her hand goes down his stomach and further, before palming him through his pants.

He’s been semi-hard since the minute she hobbled in, but at this gesture any blood that saw fit to exist anywhere else in his body now centralizes under her hand.

He bites off a groan and tosses his head back. “Stop, I—”

“Shh,” she whispers. “This is me saying sorry. Let me take care of you.”

_Maker Almighty—_ Functional thought ceases as she eases his trousers down carefully.

They have been together in almost every capacity for enough time now. Enough time to learn each other’s wants and needs, likes and dislikes, the things that work and those that don’t. It certainly helps, as well, to have a telepathic bond in which thoughts, feelings, and information can be shared if they so choose. So when she takes him, heavy and aching, into her small, calloused hand, he knows it’s only a matter of minutes before it’s all over.

Sweat beads his forehead. “Rey—” he tries again. _I want it to be good for you, too_.

“This is good for me,” she murmurs, her breath hitting the seeping tip of his twitching cock. “Very good,” she assures him, before taking him into her mouth.

He muffles his exclamation with his hand before he can bring down the walls with his shout. His other hand reflexively punches the headboard of his bed, rattling them both.

The only sounds afterwards are his abbreviated moans and the wet slide of her mouth on his cock. She wraps her hand around the base and moves it up and down with the motion of her head, her tongue, mouth, and throat working him at the top. He is panting, his hands clenching and unclenching into the bedsheets, and she looks up at him almost shyly, on the border of sweet, and he perishes inside with the knowledge that whatever she _ever_ wants, whatever her heart desires, he will do anything – _anything_ – to make it hers.

Pulling the foreskin back slightly, she licks the overly sensitized part just under the head, and he actually whimpers. Any semblance of self-respect is gone and he is simply a vessel of desire, at her imperial mercy.

She takes him in her mouth again, as far back as she can, the tip of his cock touching the back of her throat, and she – a treasure, his beloved, this exquisite being of lightness and strength – moans around him as though she can’t get enough, as though this act is sufficient in not only bringing him pleasure, but in drawing out pleasure for herself, as well. In fact, he feels it through his own haze of bliss – her arousal and the gratification she derives from performing this act on him, almost bringing her to the heights of her own climax. The incredulity he feels, the awe, the all-encompassing love and adoration, are enough to tip him over the summit and send him hurtling down.

He warns her, “Rey, I—stop—”

But she looks up and shakes her head. “Do it,” she whispers, lifting herself slightly, hand working him from base to tip. “I want it.” She replaces her hand with her mouth once more, taking him in as far as she can, squeezing at the root, her other hand seeking and caressing the tightening weights underneath the base of his cock, constricting them ever-so-slightly.

With a choked gasp, his hands come up into her hair, not pressing or holding her down, but weaving through the loosened locks and clutching her to him like an anchor through shifting waves. He can feel his climax thundering through his body and she – his precious girl – eases him through it with a soft mouth and soothing hands.

Eventually, time passes, and his ears stop ringing and his eyes focus once more. Her head is resting on his thigh, those tip-tilted eyes gazing up at him, worldly and innocent all at once; not a confident seductress nor a shy maiden, but both and neither and, most importantly, his. He reaches down and strokes her face with the backs of his knuckles.

“I don’t deserve you,” he tells her and he has never meant anything more.

“You don’t have to,” she replies, pragmatically. “Regardless, I’m here.”

He nods. He understands what she’s saying, though intrinsically he disagrees. He does have to deserve her. One day he will.

He draws her up his body, her in the filthy clothes of her trying day, him only partly dressed, both of them in shambles, and he gingerly strokes her hair back from her ears, settling and then lifting his other hand twice, before finding a spot he knows to be uninjured and finally resting it there. She snorts at him, amusement tickling the bond.

“I’m not sick. You don’t have to treat me like a baby. I’m fine,” she informs him. “I’ll be better in no time. Back in business.” She cuddles more securely into his arms, tucking her head under his chin.

“I want you to take better care of yourself,” he murmurs in her ear, nuzzling the loose, curling hairs at her temple.

He can feel the beginnings of a protest forming in her throat, but for whatever reason – a realization of what he went through today, the understanding that she matters beyond her usefulness as a Jedi and a scavenger – she holds it back and nods instead.

Satisfied, he settles more deeply into the mattress, cradling her tightly against his body.

Uncertainty may define their current existence in many ways.

But this—this is their certainty.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come say hi!](http://delia-pavorum.tumblr.com)


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